Transfixed
by threesquares
Summary: Set after The Daredevil in the Mold but before Hole in the Heart during that bittersweet time when Booth and Brennan are trying to reconnect. Rated M for strong and sexual language.


Disclaimer: I do not own Bones.

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A/N: I was unexpectedly home today, so I have unexpectedly written a story. This is not as lighthearted as I first thought it would be. Something's up with Booth. Huh. Well, I'll get to the bottom of it someday. Nevertheless, don't get me wrong, Brennan and Booth forever, baby. (Sorry about the baby, baby.) It's not light, but it's not unhappy or unresolved. Hope you like it. It takes place between Daredevil and Hole in the Heart and can be read as either an alternate version of cannon or can even pretty much fit within it. Each of the three parts take place within weeks of each other and are chronological.

This one is for dharmamonkey who has been an unbelievably generous friend to a new writer. In addition, she sent me the word "transfixed" and its definition on twitter one day. I have no idea what she thought would happen, or hoped would happen, but I hope she likes the result of her instigation/inspiration. If later, you want a little more of the good stuff, go to her ff page and read a story called "Dirty".

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This story is in three parts. I'll let you decide which is which.

Transfix: transitive verb 1. To pierce w/ or as if w/a pointed weapon. 2. To impale. 3. To render motionless, as w/terror, amazement, or other strong emotion.

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I.

4:03 am

The red digital read out on his clock looked angry. Booth's stomach was sour, his fists and jaw clenched. He didn't have a clear memory of the dream. The worst dreams were always like this, gone from the minute his gritty eyes opened. Full of smoke and crying and hopeless cycles and repetition of violence or silence or open sandy plains with wind and time and _crying crying screaming_ that never stopped. He was face down on the bed. This was new, since the night that Hannah left and Bones stayed with him drinking at the Founding Fathers. _Why did she do that? But Bones would, wouldn't she? She probably had a list of Things that Partners Do. #45 Stay when your partner is drinking himself to oblivion over a bad break up._

He was still face down on the bed, neck turned just enough to breathe, although often when he woke up like this his face was pressed to the pillow and not only did he wake up sweaty and shaking and tight with clenching and struggling and…_fuck fuck fuck yes…_scared, he woke up with his face pressed into the pillow, like he's trying to suffocate himself. And indeed, he often reared up to gasp for air before really waking up.

Groaning, he pushed himself over onto his back, shuddering once from the rush of night air on his sweaty body. The dark outlines of objects in his room looked menacing. No point lying here. He wasn't going to be getting any more sleep.

He brushed his teeth. Took a shower, taking the smallest measure of comfort in the warmth penetrating his muscles. But then felt bad for feeling a little better. _That's fucked up, Booth. _

Twenty minutes later he stood in his kitchen and considered the possibilities. Go to the 24 hour gym at the Hoover? One glance at the living room—the couch, the chairs, the TV; they are no less menacing than the furniture in his bedroom. Ridiculous but still. He had to get out of here.

He got in the car and drove. _Bones_. Once it would have been easy to admit that being with his partner always made him feel good. Wanted and needed. Challenged. Now, he didn't know, didn't want to think about how she made him…how he felt…how things..._fuck_. So, yeah. He didn't know, didn't know if he was allowed to seek her out, if it was fair to her, if it meant something, if it didn't. And yet. _Bones_. It was only Monday, he had a whole week to get through. He gave in to the inevitable and drove over to her apartment, stopping at the only place open this early to get donuts. She'd lecture him but it was a donut place for chrissakes. They don't have any whole wheat baked tofu donuts with kale sprinkles. She needed to lighten up about the fucking donuts already. He knew, though, that his indignation was forced. He wasn't really irritated with her. Actually, she seemed lighter lately, although it was hard to tell with him feeling so lousy.

He parked. Looked up at her windows. Dark. _Damn. _ He had hoped that maybe she was up. _Now what?_ He texted her. Want breakfast? He waited. No answer. That was a little bit strange. She kept her phone by her. She almost always responded to a text or call at home, even in the night. He climbed out of the Tahoe, the metallic clunk of the door closing ringing out in the cold morning city air. Rubbing his jaw, pretending to himself he was just checking things out, he stalked into the building. Nobody at the desk. The hair rose on the back of his neck. What if something was wrong? He put the donut bag on the counter and the phone to his ear, pressing the number 1 on his speed dial as he took the stairs to the 2nd floor two at a time. No answer.

He slipped the phone back in his pocket and opened the landing door a crack, silently. He could see in one direction down the hall, all the way to the end and the door of Bones' neighbor, M. Rose. That's all he knew about the guy, his name on the buzzer: M. Rose. The only other apartment on this floor. Slowly opening the door wider, he crouched low, below most people's natural shooting height and _quick in-and-out_ stuck his head through the opening, getting a good look down the hall to Bones' door. Nothing.

He swung the door open, hinges still reliably silent _glad that he sprayed all the doors and windows in Bones home and office with WD-40 routinely_ he moved swiftly to Bones' door. There was probably nothing wrong. He didn't hear anything. There was no sign of forced entry, of something amiss. To enter was an invasion of her privacy. _But what if something was wrong?_ He took out his keys, aware that he hadn't used his key to her apartment in months and months, probably before Afghanistan. When they'd have dinner and she'd shout for him to let himself in. Or he would get to her apartment before her, driving separate cars. He seated the key, turned it just to the point of catching, just before making a sound that would alert any intruder. Then, in one smooth move, he turned the key the rest of the way, pushed open the door and slipped swiftly forward, tucking himself into the most sheltered corner of her entryway.

Nothing. He knew instantly that no one was here. Not even Bones. _No one was here_. He flicked on the light in the hallway, paced through her living room, stood for a long moment looking down at her bed. Checked his watch. 4:51 am. Slipped his hand under the pillow and under the covers to feel for warmth, likely preserved under her down comforter if she had slept here last night. _Shit. What if she hadn't slept here last night. _A wave of panic and hatred for some unknown man washed over him, but no, her sheets were warm, much warmer than when he reached across to the other side of the bed. The relief was immediate and caused his hands to tremble a little. _Pull yourself together, Booth. _

In the car moments later, having retrieved the donuts and nodding the night doorman, just returned to his post, Booth headed for the Jeffersonian. Where else would she be?

But she wasn't. At least not in the lab. All was silent and dark, lit only by security lights and the glow of Hodgins' fish tanks _if you can call what swam in them "fish"_ and mini greenhouses. The building wasn't deserted, though, and when he asked one of the guards if he knew if Dr. Brennan had come in, to his surprise the guard directed him into the museum proper. Booth remembered suddenly Brennan telling him that she and another woman at the Jeffersonian had started a yoga group, class, something like that, in the museum. The space was quiet and beautiful and they brought their own mats and music and soon they had a core group of 10-12 people coming regularly, early in the morning. Maybe 5 ish if he remembered right? It was 5:15 now. He'd just go check on her. Maybe she'd want to grab breakfast after she was done.

His knowledge of the museum was deeper than it used to be before working with Bones, and he'd even brought Parker a couple of times, but he was hoping that he'd run into someone who could tell him where they were. The second guard he met directed him to the mezzanine overlooking something called the Presentation Foyer. Starting as he was on the second floor, he shouldn't have been surprised to find himself looking down on the class when he finally stumbled upon it. It was just luck that they were all facing away from him as he arrived. There were just 7 women here today and he could see them all clearly from the head of the set of stairs that curved down to the space. He remembered this space as one which housed rotating exhibits; today there was a series of huge paintings or tapestries hanging all around the space on the walls. He backed up so that he was tucked in a little alcove so, if he stayed still, he could observe her unobserved.

She was dressed in form fitting black pants and a black scoop necked top. But she might as well be naked. Her breasts stretched the top in such a way that his hands itched. For a minute his head swam, so strong was the impression of those breasts _warm with hard nipples and her moaning as he pressed his palms against them_. She was bending now, pressing her hands to the floor in a long slow stretch _his hands moved over her ass, stroked down the back of her legs and back up by way of her inner thighs stroked the join of her legs, made her moan_.

He should go. He couldn't go. Transfixed by the movement of her body, he stayed, utterly still and unaware of his own body, his own surroundings, _himself_ in a way that he almost never was. He caught glimpses of her face-always a little serious in concentration but clearly relaxed and intent on her breathing, her movement. Her lips were parted slightly. He watched her bend and flex her hands, her fingers, her feet. He watched her foot climb up the inside of her leg to rest lightly but high against her inner thigh, watched her hold this position for long minutes, and his breathing slowed. When she changed position, when her movement resumed, his breathing synchronized with it, maybe even in sync with her breathing. She did something that looked like long slow lunges to him, changing so incrementally slowly that he knew it had to burn. And then, equally slowly, she...they _although no one else really existed for him right now_...reversed the process. And then with the other leg.

Booth had worked out last night and then had gone for a run, trying for an exhaustion that would quell the dreams, quiet his agitation and unhappiness. The aches in his own muscles made themselves known sympathetically as he watched her, but eventually, with the continued deep breathing, his legs relaxed too. He was hardly aware of it, so intently was he fixated on her, but his stomach didn't feel so tight and cramped anymore either. At last, she dropped gracefully into a crouch, knees pressed to the floor, body folded over, arms outstretched. She looked like she was praying. He wanted to curl around her, see if he could get his body to fit along this new shape of hers. Like a puzzle.

Long minutes passed. Bones lying flat; Booth just breathing, watching her. And then, as if to some signal only the women could hear, they all rose or turned over or started getting ready to leave. Bones rolled her mat up and wiped her face with her towel. A few of the women conversed quietly but most of them just went off in different directions after waving or smiling a little goodbye. Brennan started up the curving marble steps to the mezzanine and his nook in the wall. Halfway up the stairs she saw him, only the slightest hitch in her step slowing her approach.

"Hello, Booth." She said, stopping before him and looking him over, his relaxed posture, one leg dangling from his window seat, one pulled up. He was in jeans and a tshirt, had planned to go back to suit up later. "You look comfortable...relaxed." Was that surprise in her voice? Miserable as he had been, stuck in his own brooding, he had probably been kind of a bear to be around.

"Yeah. Yoga must be magic. I'm more relaxed just from watching you."

Her protest was automatic. "There's no such thing as magic, Booth. How long have you..." She stopped herself, but he thought he saw the slightest hint of a blush, her eyes looked away a little shyly. Bones, _shy?_ _Of what? That he watched her?_ Her next words, slightly too aggressive, confirmed that she had felt a little vulnerable just then, in some way.

"Did you want something? Do you need me for a case?" She looked down at her phone. "You called very early, I see." She waited.

"Um, no. I just wanted to know if you wanted to have breakfast." He unbent and rose from his spot, and she stepped away to make more room for him on the landing.

"Oh." She said, head tilted up, looking at him seriously. Booth became aware suddenly that time seemed to have slowed. He found himself contemplating the darker rings at the edges of her pale irises. He blinked slowly. On the other hand, what was her excuse? She was also standing and staring at him, jaw set and a little crinkle forming between her brows. He cleared his throat finally.

"We haven't had breakfast in a while. I thought it would be...nice." He finished lamely.

Bones repeated. "Nice..." And then, she smiled a little, lips pressed together. Before she could hide it, though he saw the glint of real happiness in her eyes. Glad for once to have been the one to put it there. "Yes, that would be nice, Booth. Let me get changed." She strode off ahead of him before he could put his hand on her back. That had happened a lot since he returned from Afghanistan. When he was with Hannah, he avoided touching Bones, and now, he couldn't tell if they were just out of sync or if she was a beat ahead of him and actively avoiding him. Hopefully not today. He found he was still standing there, staring after her and ran to catch up.

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II.

Booth wakes sucking in air _again_. Sweaty and breathing hard _again_. He pulls himself into a sitting position slowly, feeling every ache and throbbing muscle, feeling the damp patches on the sheets below him where his body pressed hardest. He pulls his knees up and hunches forward, trying to stem the nausea. There is some ambient light in the room since apparently, he forgot to shut the blinds and he focuses now on the dark outlines of his wrist tattoos as he breathes through his nose. Finally, he sits up, bracing his arms on his knees, running a hand through his hair, rubbing his neck. Oppressed by the silence in the room, the fact that he can't speak or make his throat work for minutes after the dreams end. What is it that happens that mutes him like this? Now, unusually, he can remember parts of this dream. This time Bones had been there. In fact, Bones had been..._under_ him. Oh _Jesus_. Heat fills his cock, pulsing, demanding. _Shit_. He feels dirty enough, the last thing he needs is to jerk off to a dream of Bones. He should get up and take a shower. He tries his throat and manages a cough and weak growl.

"Booth?"

His head jerks back in disbelief. "_Bones?_"

"Yes. It's me. Are you all right?" Her shadowed form makes its way across the room to him, sits on the edge of the bed. He can feel her thigh pressing into his shin. He can smell her face cream. _Maybe he is dreaming now. _If that is true, the good thing is it means that other dream was just a _dreaming_ dream not a real one. Why that would be better is unclear but he just _feels_ it is. He is _definitely_ dreaming now. Definitely. Although...

"What are you doing here?" His voice is still raspy and strained, it will be hours before it is normal. If the dreams didn't stop soon, he might have to go to a speech therapist for some throat exercises or vocal warm ups. Although he suspects that this is not the kind of therapist Sweets would want him to see.

"You seem very disoriented." She reaches out and puts her right hand on his forehead; with her left, she reaches for his wrist to take his pulse. He is still so mazed by sleep and the dream hangover that he lets her. "Your heart rate is very rapid and you have perspired heavily, although you don't have a fever." Her hand drops away, reluctantly, to rest in her lap. Booth's attention is caught by a band-aid on her hand. He grabs for her hand, startling her.

"What happened? When did you hurt yourself?"

Surprised but not scared, she answers readily enough. "A little while ago. I broke a glass, cut my finger . It's not deep. It's fine, Booth."

A sudden suspicion grips him and he presses both hands to her shoulders, shaking her a little. "You're real?"

"_Booth._ Yes, I'm real. Why do you not think I'm real? Do you not remember my bringing you home last night, us staying up drinking too late, and you making up the couch for me? You wanted me to sleep in the bed, but I'm smaller, I can fit better on the couch. I was sleeping but then woke up, got a drink of water but broke a glass, and had just laid down again when I thought I heard...something. I came to check and you were sitting up in bed in the dark. Booth, oh!..."

He seizes her and crushes her to him. At first she doesn't respond but then he feels her fingertips tentatively settle on his back. Following them, even more cautiously, as if afraid of their welcome, she lets her palms settle too. She doesn't move her hands at all once they are in place; she doesn't rub his back or anything, but her hands...they press themselves against him. Just that. He knows he will still feel their outline later. He, for his part, continues to clutch her convulsively to him, vibrating against her hard enough that his rough cheek rubs into her shoulder.

"Did you have a nightmare?" She whispers the words in his ear.

He owes her the truth, at least, for this respite. "Yes." He answers harshly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her voice at his ear. Her breath on his skin. Her presence in his room and in his life, still. She cleaves through his defenses, every last one of them, as if they were made of air.

"No. But I will. With you." Her body relaxes the tiniest bit more against him, but her voice is still clear and strong, if quiet, in his ear.

"Then you go take a shower. Warm up, get dry clothes on. I'll make us tea."

He groans weakly. "I hate tea."

He thinks he can hear a smile in her voice. "We'll see."

Later, he drinks decaf coffee and tells her more things that he never thought he would tell anyone. And she listens and asks a few questions. Twice she pisses him off because she uses her brain like a weapon, but unlike most people, she doesn't back down in the face of his anger. She just pick pick picks until she understands what he means. Even if she still doesn't agree. Mad as he gets, even though it hurts a little that she can be so callous toward his _anyone's _feelings, when they are done talking, he feels better. A lot better.

They continue to talk but now about inconsequential things and both of them poke around in his kitchen for a few more minutes washing up, putting things away.

"Bones, you should go back to sleep...are you sure you don't want the bed?"

"No, thank you, Booth, I find I am quite comfortable on your couch."

"Okay then." He walks with her into the living room. She stands by the couch, toes curling into the rug beneath her. He remembers how graceful she was doing yoga last week, how strong her feet must be. There is something wrong with him that he finds that sexy. And he's an asshole to find that sexy _now_. "Good night, Bones. I..." She is watching him attentively but her eyes are sleepy and she seems softer than he usually sees her. Maybe that's what keeps him from just thanking her and going to bed. He walks over to her and reaches out again.

This time there is no hesitation. Maybe some of her walls have come down tonight too. She sinks into his body. _God she _is_ soft. _She curls into him and lets him take her weight, as if she is tired too. As if she needs the contact, the closeness, with him too. He rubs her back through her t-shirt and eventually his hand settles at the nape of her neck, stroking the soft skin and touching her hair. It's so small he wonders if he imagines it, but he's pretty sure she nuzzled her face into his neck just a little. _Oh, Bones_. For the second time tonight, he feels pain in his chest as she penetrates his defenses. He's still not sure he can open himself up that way to her again. And yet, he can't help himself and presses his lips to her temple. He's pretty sure he doesn't have a choice anymore.

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III.

It isn't two weeks later that Booth wakes again in the night and finds her there. But this time, they are _both_ in his bed. He reaches for her and she is already awake. Her arms pull him down to her, onto her, meeting his own desperation with her passion. Her mouth is open and hot under his. It is not enough. He presses into her, curls up and over and around her. Makes her sigh and moan and beg him. And he gives her what she wants, what he needs. And later, she curls _her_ body around _him_, like a puzzle. She presses kisses into his back and snugs her knees behind his and her arm wraps around him so that her fingers are woven tightly with his. Bones makes a sleepy, satisfied little mewling sound _who knew she could even make a sound like that_ and Booth feels that same pain in his chest again. It's worth it, though. And he'll get used to it, he's sure.


End file.
